


scars are for the living

by Shinybug



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Scars, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27715784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinybug/pseuds/Shinybug
Summary: “Geralt,” Jaskier murmured, thumbing across the first scar he’d sewn, a crescent that curved almost delicately across the top of his shoulder.“I don’t want your pity,” Geralt growled, turning his head away to face the wall. His hair fell across his cheek and Jaskier hesitantly swept it away to the other side.“I don’t pity you,” Jaskier assured him, too caught up in the moment to watch his tongue. “I hurt for you.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 56
Kudos: 740
Collections: wiedźmin





	scars are for the living

By the way the moon shone through the window of their room at the inn, Jaskier guessed it was somewhere just shy of midnight when he woke, disoriented and sluggish, at Geralt’s quiet groan beside him.

“Geralt?” he slurred softly, picking up his head and trying to make out what was happening. “What’s wrong?”

“Go back to sleep,” Geralt said, his voice low and tense. “It’s nothing.”

Jaskier frowned, watching the restless shifting of Geralt’s body. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“No.” He rolled onto his side, facing away from Jaskier, his breathing shallow.

“It’s clearly not nothing,” Jaskier said, sitting up and rubbing a hand over his face, trying to shake off sleep. “Talk to me.”

“I’ll be fine,” Geralt insisted, and if Jaskier hadn’t known him so well he might have believed him.

“You’re worrying me.” Jaskier laid a tentative hand on Geralt’s shoulder, unsure of how welcome his touch would be. Bedsharing was one thing, touching was another, and Geralt’s personal space was sacred and steel-walled. When Geralt didn’t shake him off Jaskier dared to stroke lightly with his thumb, trying to soothe, hoping it would be welcome.

Geralt’s sigh was long and barely audible. Jaskier thought it might be from exasperation. “I can’t sleep.”

“Clearly,” Jaskier said gently, looking at the rigid lock of Geralt’s muscles. Belatedly he recalled yesterday’s fight. It had been just a few drowners but Geralt had had to work harder than usual, and had been dragged along the bottom of the river. His armor took the brunt of it, so he hadn’t sustained any visible injuries, but perhaps he’d been hiding something from Jaskier. “Are you in pain?”

Geralt was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Muscles are tight.”

“You’re so ridiculous,” Jaskier said, gently squeezing Geralt’s shoulder. There was barely any give. “I can help with that, there’s no need to suffer in silence.”

“If I’d been silent you’d still be asleep.”

Jaskier suspected that was some kind of apology, but waved it off. “If you’re not sleeping then neither am I. What kind of friend would I be?”

Geralt rolled over stiffly to fix Jaskier with an incredulous look that was obvious even in the darkness.

Jaskier sighed. “Just tell me where it hurts.”

“Everywhere,” Geralt growled, sounding frustrated.

“Alright, let's see what's what. On your stomach, if you please.” 

Geralt shifted onto his belly without complaint, and Jaskier blinked at the reality of Geralt’s entire body stretched out beside him in nothing but his smallclothes, waiting for his touch, and he had to sternly tell his sleep-addled brain to behave.

“Just let me get some oil,” he said, slipping off the bed and digging through his bag. He had been hoarding some precious chamomile oil for bathing, but this was a more necessary use for it. When he found it he returned to the bed, kneeling next to Geralt, who hadn’t moved except to pillow his head on his arms. Were it not for the tension in his spine he might have been sleeping.

Jaskier oiled his hands and set aside the bottle, inhaling the soft fragrance and hoping it wasn’t offensive to Geralt’s sensitive nose. He’d never complained before, so Jaskier forged ahead. Until now his experience with touching Geralt had been limited to the few times he’d had to stitch him up after a fight, and this was something else entirely. He took a steadying breath and laid his hands on the dip between Geralt’s shoulder blades. He hadn’t even put any pressure down and Geralt was already hissing in reaction.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier breathed out, “next time just tell me.”

He simply smoothed his hands over the wide expanse of Geralt’s back, running over the tracks of scars and the clean stretches where no blade had caught him yet. Jaskier could feel the tension of knotted muscles beneath the scars, the way his body had reformed itself after each slice.

“How hard can I press on your scars? Will it cause you more pain?”

Geralt opened his eyes but didn’t look at Jaskier’s face. “There’s not much else there but scars. Do what you have to.”

Jaskier certainly didn’t intend for this to be something to suffer through, but he began to suspect there was no other way to get it done. He’d just have to try his best not to make things worse.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, leaning down and trying to catch Geralt’s eye, with no success. “I mean it.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier slowly ran his hands downward from between his shoulder blades, following the lines of muscles and the ridges of scars, sliding his thumbs straight through the middle of them like he was carving gentle grooves, and Geralt shuddered beneath him. Jaskier repeated the motion upward through the narrow muscles at the back of his neck, then swept down the breadth of his shoulders. They seemed impossibly wide, his muscles hard as stone with tension.

“Relax, Geralt,” Jaskier admonished quietly as he dug his fingertips lightly into Geralt’s biceps. He had to lean over him to reach, and even the awkward angle wasn’t enough to stop him from noticing the heat of Geralt’s back against his own chest. He’d gone to bed wearing his shirt and smallclothes, as he always did, and now he cursed it for muffling the sensation.

“If I could relax I would have done it already,” Geralt replied as he shifted slightly, resettling closer to Jaskier.

“Well, now I need you to try harder. Just breathe, and let go, one muscle at a time.”

Geralt pursed his lips but didn’t say anything. Long minutes passed, and Jaskier tried to keep his mind on helping Geralt instead of fulfilling his own private fantasies of getting his hands on Geralt’s body. They’d been travelling together off and on for a few years, and Geralt had never shown him any particular interest, so over time Jaskier had accepted that they were destined for nothing more than friendship--or at least as close to a friendship as Geralt was willing to acknowledge. Jaskier became an expert at sublimating his own feelings, but there were moments like this one where it all felt too close to the surface, and the lines became blurred. 

Eventually he paused, sitting back on his heels and reluctantly letting go. “Is this helping at all?”

Geralt grunted and began to gather himself up as though to move, and Jaskier forestalled him with a hand on his hip.

“I didn’t say I was done, Geralt. I just need a moment to rest my hands.”

Geralt settled back down slowly, turning his head a fraction and finally catching Jaskier’s eye. “If it’s too much, all that...you can stop.”

“All what?” Jaskier asked, frowning.

“The scars. You don’t have to.”

“Why would it be too much? They’re just scars.” Jaskier ran his finger along the ridge of one that creased over his ribs, and Geralt twitched.

“You’ve never asked about them,” Geralt said quietly.

Jaskier shrugged. “I always assumed that you’d give me those stories when you were ready.”

Geralt snorted. “And if I’m never ready?”

“Then I’ll make do with the grunted monosyllabic explanations you give me for the hunts you won’t let me join, and the daring feats of heroism I get to witness on the hunts I follow you on anyway.”

“Why hold back? You pry into every other part of my life.”

Jaskier flattened his hand over Geralt’s shoulder, resting his fingertips over a different scar. “Some stories are private. These stories, the ones I can see, probably came with a price. It’s not for me to demand you tell me that price.”

“Jask,” Geralt said, and Jaskier waited for him to finish his name, but he never did. Eventually he muttered, “Everyone asks.”

“Geralt, if there is one thing you should have learned about me by now, it’s that I’m not like everyone else. Can you imagine a world of people just like me?”

Geralt chuckled, startling Jaskier with the rare sound. “Gods forbid.”

“I’m a dandelion in a field of weeds.”

“Dandelions _are_ weeds.”

“I’m tenacious and as bright as the sun itself.” Jaskier straightened his back with defensive pride.

“That’s certainly true.”

Jaskier felt his cheeks flush, though he wasn’t sure Geralt had meant it as a compliment. “In any case, you can tell me, or not, as you like. A few of these I already know. I recognize my own handiwork in the seams. By the way, your scars look much neater since I came along.”

“Before you I had to stitch most of them myself, or not at all.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmured, thumbing across the first scar he’d sewn, a crescent that curved almost delicately across the top of his shoulder.

“I don’t want your pity,” Geralt growled, turning his head away to face the wall. His hair fell across his cheek and Jaskier hesitantly swept it away to the other side.

“I don’t pity you,” Jaskier assured him, too caught up in the moment to watch his tongue. “I hurt for you.”

Geralt grunted but didn’t reply.

Jaskier tipped some more oil into his hand and silently continued with the massage, focusing on the scars. He carefully worked on each one until he felt the tissue beneath begin to give way, and Geralt was trembling by the time Jaskier had finished his upper back.

“Do you need me to stop?”

Geralt took a shuddering breath and shook his head. “Keep going. I can take it.”

When Jaskier worked his hands down to Geralt’s lower back he made a sound like a choked off whimper, so Jaskier focused on those muscles that stretched down across the small of his back. It took him dangerously close to forbidden territory, and Jaskier wanted so badly to knead his fingers into the rounded flesh of Geralt’s backside, but he also valued his life, so he only skirted the area along the waist of his low-slung smallclothes and then reluctantly retreated higher. Geralt let his breath out in a sigh.

“Again,” he ordered in a whisper.

Jaskier swallowed hard and did it again, adding more pressure. He dug in his thumbs, his palms resting on soft linen and his fingers on skin. Geralt groaned, and Jaskier’s cock woke up. He bit his lip and tried to ignore it, but he was only human, and worse he was a human in love with Geralt of Rivia, who was spread out like a well oiled feast before him.

“Further down?” His voice wasn’t completely steady, but his hands were.

Geralt nodded, just a little bit, and lifted his hips so that Jaskier could pull down his smallclothes, trapping his thighs and exposing the curves of his backside. Jaskier followed those curves with his hands, seeking the muscles beneath, digging in his thumbs and tracking downwards. Geralt breathed deeply and shifted his hips, rocking up into the touch and down into the mattress, and Jaskier’s hands moved before his conscious thoughts could tell them not to, his thumbs dipping ever so slightly between Geralt’s cheeks.

“I can stop,” he whispered. “Tell me to stop.”

The complete silence in the room told Jaskier all that he needed to know, and he slipped a thumb over Geralt’s tightly furled hole. Geralt made a rough sound and Jaskier watched the muscles of his back tighten up again.

“No, none of that, or I’ll stop,” Jaskier chided, trying to ignore his rabbiting heart and rubbing his thumb back and forth. With clear effort Geralt relaxed again, resting his cheek on his hands. Jaskier kept his gaze locked on Geralt’s face as he slowly tugged his smallclothes all the way off and carefully shifted over to straddle one of Geralt’s thighs, fitting their bodies together as he knelt there, finding a much better angle for his hands. Geralt didn’t make a sound, but his eyelashes fluttered as he closed his eyes.

Jaskier took the bottle of oil and gently tipped it so that a few drops slipped down between Geralt’s cheeks, cool and slick, and Geralt gasped, lifting his hips into the sensation. Jaskier wasted no time sweeping his finger through the oil and slipping inside. Geralt grunted and Jaskier gently thrust into his tight heat.

“Relax,” Jaskier coaxed. “Let me in.”

Geralt moaned and pressed his forehead to his folded arms, and then suddenly Jaskier could move his finger with ease, massaging in a slow rhythm that had Geralt rocking with him. Geralt spread his legs further, his meaning obvious.

“Can you take another?”

“Yes,” Geralt gasped, and Jaskier let out a breath he’d been holding.

“So you can speak after all,” he said, relieved. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“Fuck off, bard.” He sounded more impatient than angry.

“Well, I thought I was fucking _you_ , but if you’d like me to leave…” His voice trembled as he added another finger and twisted them slowly.

“Don’t you dare,” Geralt rasped, moving his arms so that he could grip the sheets.

“Geralt, let go. Open your hands.”

After a moment Geralt unclenched his hands and laid his palms flat on the bed. “Witchers aren’t made to relax,” he protested, but he settled back onto the mattress all the same.

“Well I think that’s utter nonsense and I’m going to prove you wrong.” Jaskier had no idea where his sudden bravery was coming from, or what the light of day would do to their friendship, he only knew that the moonlight across Geralt’s back cast his scars into silver lines like constellations, and Jaskier was helpless against that beauty. The desire to see Geralt unspun, unraveled, eclipsed all else. “You’re going to take what you need, and afterwards you’re going to sleep like you’ve never slept before, and I’m going to keep watch over you, as a good friend would do.”

“A friend,” Geralt echoed, and Jaskier’s heart lurched.

“I’ll make you believe that too,” he said through an aching throat.

“Hmm.” Geralt rocked back onto Jaskier’s fingers, which had stilled. “Show me.”

Jaskier slipped a third finger inside and Geralt groaned, a deep scraping sound. He took it with such ease that Jaskier kept thrusting without pause, slowly stretching him until he was open and slick and so hot, and Jaskier kept up his whispered praise. When he finally twisted and crooked his fingers, rubbing across the bundle of nerves hidden there, Geralt cried out, a broken, needy sound.

“Tell me,” Jaskier pleaded, stroking again, soft and slow.

“More,” Geralt grated out, lifting up into the touch, bracing for it, his breath coming out in punches.

“More fingers?” Jaskier trembled at the idea, never stopping the motion of his hand.

Geralt rested his forehead on his arm. His hands flexed closed, then open again. “More of you.”

A bolt of heat made Jaskier’s cock throb in his smallclothes, and his heart pounded like a drum. He withdrew his fingers gently, and Geralt made a grunt of protest. Jaskier hushed him and leaned down to press a kiss to his shoulder. “All of me?”

“All.”

Jaskier’s heart was beating so wildly that he was barely conscious of climbing off the bed to disrobe, freeing his cock and slicking it up with the oil. The dusty sweetness of chamomile teased his nose with every breath, and when he positioned himself between Geralt’s thighs he could smell him, leather and musk from skin sheened with sweat.

“I won’t insult you by asking if you’re sure. I know you’d never have asked if you weren’t. But tell me if you change your mind, and I’ll stop. I want this to be good for you. Better than good.”

Geralt nodded mutely, and Jaskier wished he would meet his gaze, but Geralt’s eyes remained closed. Geralt lifted his hips and Jaskier slid a pillow beneath him, tilting his ass up in a gorgeous display that made Jaskier’s mouth water. Very carefully he reached beneath and slipped his hand around Geralt’s hard cock, making sure he was comfortable, and Geralt groaned as Jaskier gave him an experimental tug.

“Not yet,” Geralt ground out, and Jaskier pulled his hand back.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered, pressing another kiss to Geralt’s skin, then lining up his cock with Geralt’s entrance. Geralt ignored his words and pushed backwards into Jaskier, taking him in slowly but with little resistance, while Jaskier desperately tried to control his breathing. Instead of letting him choose the rhythm Geralt took over, showing him what he wanted, and Jaskier rocked against him on instinct.

Together they fell into synchronicity, where they both moved as natural as breathing with one another. Geralt was tight and slick around his cock, hot and almost overwhelmingly perfect. Jaskier kept an eye on Geralt, watching for tension in his frame, but except for the gentle grasping of Geralt’s hands in the bedclothes he remained easy, his muscles relaxed.

“So good, Geralt, you’re doing so well,” Jaskier murmured, and Geralt jerked ever so slightly at his words. He let his hands wander over Geralt’s back, smoothing over scars and catching on his ribs, making Geralt shiver. Jaskier responded with a deeper thrust, and Geralt lifted his head, gasping.

“Jask,” he said, his voice low and ragged. Once again Jaskier waited for Geralt to finish his name, and when he didn’t Jaskier finally realized that it was meant as an endearment, and he blinked in surprise, his heart aching.

He gripped Geralt’s hips, unable to help the sudden quickening of their rhythm, shifting up and dragging his cock over Geralt’s sweet spot. A long, almost inaudible moan left him, and he braced for Jaskier’s motion. Jaskier felt his own pleasure threatening to peak, but resolutely clamped down on it in order to focus on Geralt. He felt Geralt begin to come undone, tightening around him in waves and arching his back to keep that perfect angle, breathing hard.

When Geralt came he was silent, his breath suddenly stopped and held, spasming around Jaskier’s cock. He pressed his forehead into the sheets, utterly still, and Jaskier soothed him with a hand on the small of his back. Slowly he relaxed, collapsing against the mattress bonelessly, breathing once more, and Jaskier took a long time carefully pulling out.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, “are you well?”

Geralt sighed and nodded his head, and Jaskier was proud that he had helped Geralt to this point of utter calm. His heart bloomed with such a swell of tenderness that he couldn’t bear to let go of him, clinging to sweat-soaked skin, unsure what he was allowed now that Geralt’s pleasure was complete.

After a while Geralt levered himself up and Jaskier scrambled to get out of his way, standing next to the bed watching while Geralt finally turned over, his eyes still closed. Jaskier was mesmerized for a moment, staring at all that skin he hadn’t touched yet, then pulled away the soiled pillow and tossed it aside. He cleaned Geralt gently with a corner of the sheet when he made no move to do so. Geralt’s movements were loose, his limbs drifting as though he was underwater.

“Come here,” he rumbled, and he finally opened his eyes to look at Jaskier. Yellow eyes turned silver in the moonlight pinned him like a moth to paper.

“Oh,” said Jaskier, his eloquence having left him. He still stood there with his cock rigid and ignored, uncertain what Geralt was asking.

Hesitantly he climbed onto the bed and lay down next to Geralt, feeling awkward and wanting with every part of his being. Geralt turned on his side and watched him, an unblinking and ravenous gaze that surprised Jaskier. His cock lay on his belly demanding attention as he squirmed under Geralt’s focus.

“Do you mind if I…” he said, gesturing to himself, hoping the moonlight and shadows concealed the flush on his cheeks.

Geralt nudged his hand away and took Jaskier’s cock in his own hand, and Jaskier almost finished right there from the shock of sensation. He gasped and lurched, his stomach muscles tightening, thrusting up into Geralt’s gripping fingers.

“Oh, gods save me,” he whispered, turning his face toward Geralt unconsciously. He ached with need for more than just this promised pleasure, trying to keep from reaching for Geralt’s body, for permission to hold on.

As if in a dream he felt Geralt’s mouth settle over his own in a feather-light kiss, moving as slow as Geralt’s hand on him. He waited until Geralt’s tongue flickered against his lips, then opened his mouth and drew him in. Geralt leaned over and pressed him back into the bed, throwing a heavy thigh over Jaskier’s and trapping him there for his drawn out rhythm.

Jaskier gave in and laid his hands on Geralt’s chest, finding scars and tracing them, dragging through chest hair and getting tangled in his medallion’s chain. Geralt kissed him deeper but no faster, holding him back for a slow pleasure that would have felt like lassitude if not for the tension between them.

“Geralt,” he moaned, throwing an arm around Geralt’s shoulders and trying to rock up into him, prevented by the thigh pinning him down. “Please. Please let me.”

He was begging for more than just to come, and he could hear it in his own voice, but he doubted that Geralt could hear it and couldn’t find any words to make it clearer. He was afraid of the answer if he did.

“I want you to,” Geralt said against his mouth, and Jaskier came in a sharp rush over Geralt’s hand and his own stomach, a splash of heat that nearly startled him. He shook and moaned, hiding his face in Geralt’s neck while Geralt eased him through to the other side of pleasure, where he could find peace.

Geralt cleaned him with the sheet, a returned favor, and Jaskier rolled against his body without thinking of any reason why he shouldn’t, drawing heat from him as he shivered in the cool air. Slowly it dawned on him that the only reason they’d started this was to help Geralt’s pain. Jaskier pulled away guiltily and nudged Geralt until he could lay down on his back, and rested his hand lightly on Geralt’s chest.

“How is your pain now?”

“Gone,” Geralt said simply, gazing up at him.

“And...any new pain?” Jaskier asked delicately.

Geralt shook his head, the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth.

Jaskier felt for the slow thump of Geralt’s heartbeat through the cage of his ribs, lingering on a ragged scar across his pectoral. He automatically pressed into the scar, trying to ease the rigidity he felt there, and Geralt caught his hand.

“Don’t you want me to help? I can feel that you still need it here, at the very least.”

Geralt frowned. “It’s strange to me that you don’t mind touching them.”

“Why? They’re part of you.”

“Most people see them as a disfigurement. At best they try to ignore them. At worst they’re horrified. Whores don’t ask questions, they’re trained to overlook this kind of thing. Even then there are exceptions, though.”

“And how do you see them?” He turned his hand in Geralt’s to hold on.

Geralt turned his gaze away. “They’re just marks that remind me of my failures. All the times I was too slow, when I came too close to death because I was distracted, or too weak.”

Jaskier jerked back, horrified. “Geralt, you can’t possibly think that.”

“Every new scar reminds me of what I did wrong,” Geralt replied evenly. “Every aching muscle tells me that a weak Witcher is a dead Witcher.”

Jaskier held Geralt’s cheek, his thumb tracing a thin, faded scar high on his cheekbone. “Listen to me, Geralt. Scars are for the living. You survived, and these are the proof. You’re still here, you were strong enough and brave enough to go on even when you were so close you could look Death in the eye. Every mark means you lived long enough to heal. Be proud of them, Geralt. Not ashamed.”

“I don’t...know how to do that,” Geralt said haltingly.

“I’ll help you.” Jaskier squeezed his hand. “I’ll remind you every day.”

There was bewilderment on Geralt’s face. “Why do you want to help? Why do you care so much?”

Jaskier looked at him helplessly. “I think you know why. Surely you must know by now.”

Geralt remained stubbornly silent, his eyes dark and fathomless in the shadows.

“Have you not listened to a single song I’ve written about you? Each one is a love song, Geralt.”

“I know,” Geralt said, surprising him. “I just don’t understand why.”

Having laid his heart bare, Jaskier could lose nothing by leaning in and kissing Geralt, losing himself for just one moment in the heat of his lips. “Because you’re the finest man I’ve ever known.”

“I’m not a man,” Geralt whispered.

“And yet,” Jaskier replied. He pressed his lips to the long scar on Geralt’s chest, careful to touch skin that still had sensation so that Geralt could feel it. He tasted the salty, uneven skin with his tongue, licking along the seam, and Geralt inhaled sharply. He trailed his fingers down Geralt’s stomach, pausing at each scar along the way. “I love these, my friend, and I love you.”

He trembled, having said it, fearing what would happen next, but Geralt hauled him back up with a hand in his hair and kissed him, hard and searchingly. He cradled Jaskier’s face in his hand, caught the corner of his mouth with his thumb as they kissed, tugging him open for Geralt’s darting tongue. Jaskier threaded his fingers into Geralt’s disheveled hair, anchoring himself while the world spun. When Geralt pulled away Jaskier was dazed, gasping for breath, tasting Geralt on every inhale.

“I don’t know how to do any of this properly,” Geralt murmured, low and ragged, “but I’ll try, for you.”

“Well,” said Jaskier, “I’ve never really been one to do things properly. So why don’t we just figure it out together.”

Geralt kissed him again, softer this time, gently catching his mouth and keeping it. They traded unhurried kisses long enough for Jaskier’s heart to slow from its frantic pace, and Geralt eventually dropped back down to rest. He gazed up at Jaskier with sleepy eyes that reflected silver from the window.

“Tell me truly, is your pain gone?”

Geralt huffed softly, maybe a laugh, or possibly fond impatience. “Truly. You took it away.”

Jaskier kissed him again, still craving the taste of him, the heat of his lips. He was startled when Geralt gently pushed him back, just enough to meet his gaze.

“We should talk, probably.”

Jaskier laughed a little, suddenly nervous. “Geralt of Rivia, suggesting we use words to solve our problems.”

He frowned. “Is there a problem?”

“Not on my end,” Jaskier assured him.

“Nor on mine. I just...needed to know.”

Jaskier sighed in relief. “The way I see it, I’ve been holding this great secret for some time, the way I really feel. I suspect you have too. The rest can wait until morning.”

Geralt stared at him for a long time, open and warm, then nodded, and Jaskier was not at all surprised when he didn’t say anything else.

“Can you sleep now?” Jaskier touched Geralt’s brow, sweeping silver wisps away and smoothing his permanent frown lines.

“I don’t want to.”

“Well, I want you to. You need sleep. I told you I’d watch over you, and I meant it.”

“I don’t need you to keep watch.” Geralt slid his thumb over Jaskier’s collarbone, hinting with a simple touch that he’d much rather be doing something else.

“Please let me,” Jaskier whispered. “You should be able to set aside your vigilance for a few hours. You deserve some peace.”

Geralt’s eyes were already sliding shut, his touch languid on Jaskier’s skin. “Only for a little while.”

“As long as you need,” Jaskier corrected. He pulled the blanket over the both of them and curved his body to fit against Geralt’s. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake.”

“You’re always here.”

Jaskier grinned into the darkness, although Geralt wouldn’t see it. “I’m tenacious that way.”

“Bright as the sun,” Geralt murmured, and fell asleep.

Geralt’s medallion had fallen behind his shoulder so Jaskier carefully moved it back to the center of his chest. He brushed his mouth against Geralt’s unscarred temple and settled next to him, listening to his breathing even out. Jaskier would have no trouble keeping watch against anything that might threaten them, even in the relative safety of their room at the inn. There in the shadows, beside his friend, Jaskier had found something precious and fine that he’d never expected to have, and he didn’t want to miss a moment.


End file.
